


The Red Baron

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, ankle monitors, escaping beyond the limits of freedom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 09:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Neal takes up a new hobby. Unfortunately, it means that he must wander out of his radius from time to time, risking both Peter’s wrath and his own freedom.





	The Red Baron

Mozzie was kicked back in Neal's loft one evening with the usual wine glass in his hand. However, before getting comfortable and imbibing his version of ambrosia, the short, bald man had connected a wire from his phone to Neal's flat screen television. That had enabled his friend to view a video recording which Mozzie had made over the Labor Day weekend while in Cleveland. The famous “Blue Angels,” an impressive group of both Navy and Marine flying aces, were performing their trademark montage of death-defying aerial stunts over Lake Erie to commemorate the holiday. Neal watched in awed fascination as the pilots maneuvered their six F/A-18 aircrafts into various formations starting with the classic “Diamond,” maintained at 400 miles per hour. They then followed that up with wingtip passes, loops, rolls, and transitions to other patterns, some at Mach 1 speeds. The professional pilots ended the show in the famous “Delta” formation.

“That was fantastic,” Neal gushed with enthusiasm. “I wish that I could have seen it in person,” he added wistfully. “I’ve always dreamed off soaring off into the clouds. What’s it like, Moz? I know that you can fly a plane.”

Mozzie made a wry face. “I do know the rudiments, mon frère, but I’m not any Baron von Richthofen by any means.” Mozzie was referring, of course, to the German World War I flying ace. Everybody had heard that name after Charles Schultz had created his illustrated little book about Snoopy, the much beloved beagle in the “Peanuts” series, facing off against the legendary “Red Baron.”

“Well, okay,” Neal conceded the point, “maybe instead of Manfred von Richlofen, you’re more like Amelia Earhart.”

“God forbid,” Mozzie answered in mock horror. “If you remember correctly, that progressive lady aviator disappeared after attempting to circumnavigate the globe. They never found her remains, most likely because they’re resting on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.”

“Exactly, Moz, she ‘disappeared,’ which may not always be a bad thing,” Neal said with a crooked smile.

“Ah—I see where this is going,” Mozzie theorized. “Now that I have a duplicate key to your tracking anklet, it would be a piece of cake to slip away and disappear from the grasp of the evil Federal consortium that currently holds you in bondage.”

Neal just grinned his Cheshire Cat smile.

Months before when Peter had been sidelined with the flu, Mozzie had brought his bee pollen elixir to the Burke homestead while playing compassionate homeopathic healer. Serendipitously, Peter’s keyring had been hastily tossed on the living room mantle as the ailing and nauseated FBI agent hustled up the stairs to the nearest bathroom to commune with the Tidy Bowl man in the toilet. Later, Mozzie left with several empty vials that had once held his miracle cure along with a wax impression of the key to Neal’s anklet.

As time passed, Mozzie was able to hack the Marshal’s feed and tweak a few things so that the surveilling sentinels were never alerted when Neal’s little ankle bracelet was removed or reattached. It was really a stroke of genius and enabled the little man to gleefully gloat.

Mozzie was reminiscing once again about his cleverness. “I was wondering when we were going to avail ourselves of that very _fortuitous_ development thanks to my quick thinking and extraordinary technical ingenuity,” he crowed happily.

“Well, I’ve been holding off,” Neal explained, “until it was worth my while to take the risk. We certainly wouldn’t want to leave New York empty-handed, now would we?”

Mozzie seemed intrigued and quickly jumped on board as an escape plan began coalescing in his mind. “Now that you’ve put the notion in my head, I think that a small private plane would be the perfect getaway vehicle, especially if you don’t file a flight plan with the FAA,” he said smugly. “The Marshals would be running around in circles checking bus and train terminals as well as commercial flights out of La Guardia and JFK. After they looped in Homeland Security, they’d also alert toll plazas on the turnpikes and interstates leading out of the city, and maybe even do a sweep of the harbor. Nobody would notice a little speck way up in the sky no bigger than a gnat.”

Neal tried to tamp down Mozzie’s enthusiasm. “Someday, Moz, someday—just not today or tomorrow or even next week. Patience is paramount if we expect to do it right.”

Mozzie looked a bit crestfallen. “But it never hurts to be prepared, mon frère, so maybe I should get in some practice on a flight simulator to hone my rusty skills. There’s an aviation school right here in Manhattan and one across the Hudson in Newark. Why don’t you come with me, Neal, or, better yet, why don’t you take some lessons? There’s a lot of prep work that you must first master before you’re even allowed near an actual plane. We could use one of your alter-ego identities to get you registered and the proper paperwork started.”

Neal just shook his head, then started the video again with a longing expression on his face. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to control that much raw energy while cocooned in a small cockpit with a joy stick in your hand. Did it make you feel invincible as you singlehandedly pierced ceilings of puffy cumulus clouds and soared like an eagle over the patchwork quilt of earth far below? Due to his circumstances, he’d probably never know or experience that euphoric emotion. Then a taunting little voice in his brain whispered _“maybe.”_

Neal was all about spontaneity and jumping into a situation feet first—to hell with the consequences. But while under his handler’s thumb, Neal really had tried to curb his impulsiveness. However, when Peter had expressed his irritable displeasure one afternoon after a planned FBI sting fizzled, and then nastily chastised his CI for something that was out of his control, it stung enough to send Neal spiraling down a different road. He enrolled in flying classes that weekend.

Every Saturday for the next six months, “Ken Mansfield” sat at a desk and learned the basics of small aircraft piloting. “Ken” was the latest creation in Neal’s list of aliases. He had obtained this one courtesy of a rather dour Ukrainian who had fostered non-entities for years, giving them a unique ethereal life on paper that he had updated over time.

Luckily, the flight school was situated in the middle of a block on a New York street, bookended by a coffee shop and an art supply store. If Peter happened to check Neal’s whereabouts, the location of the little blinking dot would look innocent enough to convince the FBI agent that his CI was simply visiting a favorite haunt.

Learning to fly was a tedious and arduous education, but Neal hung in for the duration memorizing facts and figures from the training syllabus. Mozzie routinely quizzed him on the aerodynamics of flight, pre-flight procedures, aircraft systems and instruments, emergency operations, and equipment malfunctions. The little tutor sort of glossed over the FAA requirements and Air Traffic Control communications. Sure, you had to know that stuff for the test, but it certainly wasn’t something that would ever be useful or germane to either Neal or Mozzie.

When summer arrived in Manhattan, Neal was ready for the next phase of training which entailed an actual plane. How else was he going to learn the basics of take offs, flight maneuvers, and landings? He also had to eventually perform three solo flights to qualify for his license. Unfortunately, the nearest airfield for light propeller-driven aircraft like Cessnas and Pipers was in New Jersey, very much out of Neal’s radius.

Mozzie was the imp on Neal’s shoulder urging him on. “Well, mon frère, I guess it’s flashpoint time. How motivated are you, Neal, to take it to the next level? Are you ready to ditch the bracelet for a few afternoons so that you can indulge your new hobby?”

Neal was more than ready. On succeeding Saturday mornings, Mozzie would free Neal of the cumbersome device, quickly re-lock it, and then tuck that puppy away in a vintage messenger bag. The bag went on Mozzie’s shoulder where it tooled around town well within the two-mile boundaries of Neal’s Manhattan prison. In the meantime, a gloriously happy young man climbed into a Cessna Skyhawk beside an instructor and took to the heavens.

Neal was a natural at this new endeavor and relished every minute. His ability impressed his instructor, and after a few test runs, he let the eager young man go solo. Finally, almost a year after he had yearningly watched a “Blue Angels” demonstration, Neal met the FAA flight time requirements and passed the FAA written exam as well as the oral and practical tests. Ken Mansfield was now a newly-minted pilot, and an obsession had been born.

Every weekend, weather permitting, Neal would rent a small plane and escape the bonds that tethered him to earth. It was exhilarating to soar away from his responsibilities and troubles, and there was a peaceful tranquility to simply wafting along a never-ending ocean of blue.

“Are we ever really going to _go_ anywhere?” Mozzie complained one night after Neal had returned to his loft.

Neal just smiled contentedly and refused to be pressured. “When the time is right, Moz.”

Mozzie began to suspect that maybe the time would never be right. Neal now had an outlet for his frustration, so escape had been put on the back burner. Well, c'est la vie. Mozzie was a patient man, so he could wait. Actually, he didn’t have to wait very long.

It was a beautiful warm Sunday afternoon in October. Neal was flying and Mozzie had lackadaisically meandered the familiar streets of Neal’s radius during his absence. He had first stopped for tea and a danish and was now engaged in a chess game in Washington Square Park with one of the young hotshot enthusiasts who hung out around the small, outdoor tables. Of course, Neal’s piece of jewelry was in the messenger bag at his feet. Mozzie was pondering his next move against a gansta wanna-be. He was meticulously putting the classic Sicilian Defense strategy into play when a heavy hand descended on his shoulder and began to squeeze. The little man froze, and his eyes widened behind his thick glasses. Mozzie’s opponent’s eyes grew large as well.

“Man, it looks like you got yourself busted, so I’m outta here,” the kid quipped as he scurried away.

“You don’t look like Neal,” Peter Burke growled from behind the paralyzed man, “yet the information on my phone says that he is sitting right in front of me. Care to explain how you managed the metamorphosis, Mozzie?”

“May I just say that it’s a bit complicated?” Mozzie squeaked out the first thought in his head.

“You don’t get to answer my question with a question of your own, little man,” Peter said irritably as he yanked up Mozzie’s pant legs, one after the other. “Okay, now we stop playing games—cough it up right now or I’ll continue to look for it myself,” Peter demanded as he held out his hand.

“I’m only doing this to avoid an embarrassing strip-search,” Mozzie pouted as he dug the desired item from his bag. “Sorry, G-Man, but I’m certainly not going to let you get your jollies by groping the family jewels!”

“I’m sure I’ll survive the disappointment,” Peter smirked. “Now, you _are_ going to tell me where Neal is at this moment, and don’t be vague!”

“Up in the wild blue yonder,” Mozzie said smugly.

“That’s being vague, Mozzie!” Peter barked.

“Maybe it would be better if I showed you,” Mozzie equivocated. “You’ll have to drive because Neal has my car.”

As the two mismatched travelers set out from Manhattan towards New Jersey, Mozzie asked meekly, “Why were you looking for Neal, Suit? It’s Sunday, for goodness sake—a Christian day of rest.”

“Neal’s my responsibility twenty-four seven,” Peter snarked. “I kept calling his phone, but it continually went to voicemail. Just tell me, Mozzie, what was behind this sudden decision to flee? I thought things were pretty copacetic at the moment. What set him off?”

Mozzie snorted derisively. “As always, you are assuming things that are erroneous. Neal is not fleeing, as you indelicately put it. He’s simply enjoying some well-earned relaxation time away from you and the Bureau with your demands and your prying eyes.”

Peter didn’t like that answer. “Well, he could certainly ‘relax’ with a good masseuse right here in the city. Could this somehow be related to a caper or a con or even, God-forbid, an affair of the heart? We’ve been down that road before and it didn’t end well for him.”

“Neal may be in love, but it isn’t with any woman,” Mozzie simpered.

“Are you trying to be mysterious, Mozzie? If so, it’s an epic fail,” Peter retorted.

Mozzie refused to be baited and became mute except for a tersely spoken direction when necessary. Eventually, Peter’s Taurus turned onto a narrow lane in the flat Jersey countryside that led to a hangar surrounded by a fleet of small planes.

“Well, where is he?” Peter snapped impatiently as he and Mozzie exited the car. Mozzie didn’t give an answer. He merely pointed up in the sky where a little Cessna was performing rolls and loops like a graceful eagle riding the air thermals. The tiny craft was being put through its paces, executing steep dives and then pulling its nose up at the last second to sweep across the empty fields. Time after time, it would climb aloft again, almost vertically, before leveling out. The scene caused Peter’s stomach to perform its own flip flops.

“Is Neal at the controls?” he asked fearfully.

“Yep,” Mozzie said proudly. “This is actually the first time I’ve seen him in action.”

“Does the crazy fool think he’s Tom Cruise in that ‘Top Gun’ movie?” Peter mumbled worriedly.

“I think our boy is more like the ‘Red Baron’ during his glory days,” Mozzie smirked.

After a time, the little aircraft gracefully descended, and Neal delicately brought it to a stop not far from Peter and Mozzie. When the propeller chugged to a halt, the door opened allowing a truant felon/daredevil pilot to jump down quite agilely. Neal then sauntered over to Mozzie and his handler, grinning sheepishly.

“How much trouble am I in?” he asked Peter softly. “Is it enough for you to throw up your hands in frustration and toss me back in Sing Sing?”

“Maybe,” Peter said vaguely. “I think that right now I just need to know why you’re doing this, Neal. Make me understand.”

Neal shrugged helplessly as the slight breeze ruffled his hair and made him look like a contrite little boy standing in front of a demanding taskmaster.

“I don’t know, Peter. I guess it’s a rush and an addiction,” he answered lamely.

When Peter still looked skeptical, Neal tried again to reach him.

“Picture yourself in a tricked-out Maserati, Buddy, joyriding full-tilt on the German autobahn. That’s how flying makes me feel when I’m in the cockpit up there,” he said longingly as he pointed skyward.

“So, all of this was not preparation for an escape. Is that what you’re trying to say, Neal?” Peter questioned.

“Of course not,” Neal quickly answered. “That little baby over there doesn’t have the capability of reaching another coast on a faraway continent. If I were really going to escape, I’d chose a jumbo jet.”

Peter looked thoughtful, then started fiddling with his phone while Neal and Mozzie stood tensely awaiting the verdict. Eventually, a self-satisfied smirk graced Peter’s pursed lips.

“I used to go fishing with my Dad when I was a kid,” the FBI agent reminisced fondly. “There’s a little cabin up in the Adirondacks that sits on a lake bursting with hungry bass. I just did some quick distance calculations, and that little barnstormer can certainly make it. After we get you a new anklet, Neal, you can fly us up there. I think that I want to ‘relax’ with you over a long weekend.”

Neal opened his mouth to protest, then had second thoughts and closed his jaws with a snap. He was teetering on unsteady ground right now, and it was probably a good idea to be on his best behavior and to play nice with others. However, that concept became even harder when Peter had additional plans in mind.

“And then there’s always the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown! This is going to be a lot of fun, Neal. I’m going to show you how to relax—Peter Burke style!”


End file.
